Sunday

My Past

I am obsessed,
with the scents from my past.
she is a silent,
brooding epic.

I hear her sing tunes,
and play games,
with my future.

I, in a checked shirt,
sitting on this lone chair,
in my room, am trying,
to understand the misunderstood
fable that my past is.

You could call me
a man in love.
For she is my only tangible friend.
Mysterious and purple.

Sometime we sit,
by each other's side,
she, laughing in forty thousand flowers,
and I, trying to bend the rays,
of a naive sun.

5 comments:

megha punater said...

you are good sagar in writing poems,you have a distinctive style.

Sagar said...

Megha~Thank You, Lady :)

astroid said...

ummm a mystery lover...
I hope you dont mean your maths book :D
How I misunderstood that theorem in my past!!
:D

dhun said...

Awesome!

Sagar said...

Dhun~ Thanks :)

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